The Return
by ThePersonFromMemoryLane
Summary: A poetic retelling of how POTO should have ended.
1. Elegies, Mourning

This is my first POTO fanfic, so any and all feedback is welcome. It is not meant to be a long, length (almost novel-like) fanfic. It is almost medium-level, I feel.

**Please know that these are my works and any redistribution or reusing of them is not allowed under any circumstances.**

**(c) ~PersonFromMemoryLane, 2013**

Throughout the entire fanfic (both the poems and the prose,) the perspective shifts from Erik to Christine, so if you are lost for a moment, I apologize. I tried to make it obvious whose perspective it was during whichever given vignette.

The order of the types of poems are: elegy, sonnet, free verse, free verse, sestina. Any questions, please contact me via private messaging or through your comments. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoy! :)

These first two poems are elegys.

* * *

_The Lamentations of a Poor, Unhappy Erik_

_The Grievances of Wishful, Little Lotte_

* * *

_The Death of My Angel of Music_

Never in my years have I known such sorrow!

This curséd fate is one worse than death

This demon, this creature of desire,

She has rendered me broken and undone.

My existence, the air I breathe, they bear no purpose

Who am I, when not even the ivories can soothe my soul?

The beauty that struck and harnessed my being,

Purity unnoticed, that I had suddenly brought to light,

Bewitched me in a surreal, love sick insanity.

Innocence was embodied in ever curve of her lip,

And iridescence kindled, lively in her eyes—

Her angelic majesty forever goes unrivaled.

Music unparalleled in the course of time,

Brought my angel to me, and then took her from me.

She was never once mine, not even in song,

When our voices merged into melody.

How could not have existed to love me?

Me, a monster, horrid in my ugliness.

My dreams crushed, unrealized, forgotten,

Their weight consumed me all at once.

Demonic in their intentions, they took me.

She graced the stairs with her light feet,

Biting back her true resolve, her instinct.

Though gone, her music still graces my forlorn senses.

* * *

_Angels and Demons_

Cruelty is certainly my foulest of fortes,

For I'm nothing more than a vicious vixen

I drove him away! He is gone now—forever more!

I have forced him into darkness, his only solace,

The one place he can curse and cry out my name,

In a hellish haven where no angel would dare intrude

I have abandoned my sense of propriety, it is dead.

I could care less for it, now that he's gone.

Why should I, being the soul saving star I am,

Leave a corner of this vast sky black?

Why, angel I am, should I leave my demon alone

Left to wallow in the depths of his Hell?

Unadulterated passion, cultivated in the dark

Again, the only place he felt safe, and now

He uses it as a cape. Billowing, velvet, black,

The shadows are his true companions as he hides,

Blocking the sun, hating light, damning all of it

But to where are they damned? Surely,

Somewhere far worse than the dark in which he lies.

Blame that I alone can claim, it is all mine

I surrender, I admit—I am at fault. This angel

She is not what she seems. Unearthly, beauteous,

And redeeming though she appears, it is not true.

At morn I wake, a silver dagger to my chest with this:

In darkness, a demon thrives, yet in light, his angel suffers

* * *

The white dress, befit of _my_ bride, disappeared up a winding staircase. It was hesitant, though, as if each action was confused, unsure. Of course, of course, poor Erik, it seems that way. She had certainly been sure only a moment ago—when I at last allowed her—that she wanted to flee with her young suitor.

That boy, with his perfect face and boyish charm! He stole my angel away, and now I am left with only the demons of the dark and the monsters of the night to comfort me. Tears, such human things! They fill my eyes, they burn my accurséd face!

Cruel, she is. Leaving me to my demise upon this cold, stone floor. I am reduced to the state of a beaten child, of an abandoned pup!

Strange little noises come from my throat. Were those pleading, little heartbroken moans? There shall be none of this! Yet how am I to defy nature? I could not escape it all these years… Why should I run now?

"Christine," I begged, though it was futile, "Christine."

My body quivered with sadness as I stole a glance at the staircase. There she was! Still standing upon the stairs that led to her freedom. Was she plagued by indecision?

"Christine," I whispered inaudibly as the boy, meeting my eyes for a split second, took hold of Christine's hand.

No, please, my angel, I begged internally, to no avail. My dear, stay with me! Could she possibly hear my silent pleas? I wondered as she took the smallest of seconds to wait, until she finally grasped her fiancé's hand in her own.

Agape with heartbroken despair, and an empty pain that has no name, I laid my face upon the floor, wishing I had never been bestowed of it.

I pray this is a dream! I shut my eyes tight, as if to eliminate what had just happened.

All the prayers in the world were not enough, when I glanced up to find her gone. And no comprehensible words were suitable for the scream I let loose when at last—at long last!—I lost my angel.

* * *

As I ascended the stone stairs, I could hear his broken sobs above my own. I bit my lip, for I could not look back! My decision was made: _Raoul_ was my light. I had chosen him.

"Christine," I heard my fallen angel whimper piteously, "Christine…"

My eyes burned, but nothing could compare to the inferno within my heart. Raoul's frosty blue eyes met mine, filled with worry, as he extended his hand.

"Come, Christine. We must leave."

For one minuscule moment, I stared at Raoul's hand.

Do I dare leave him to comfort this… creature of darkness? Could I break his heart, after all he has done for me? But am I any better of a person if I leave this Phantom to die of despair, and leave my heart to crumble slowly?

I cannot recall my reasoning, but my trembling hand soon grasped Raoul's, and, lifting the skirts of my tainted white dress, he and I scaled the remaining stairs in quick haste.

His strong hand tightened its hold on mine as a bloodcurdling, ghoulish scream echoed from the depths of my angel's labyrinth.


	2. Sonnets, Questioning Grief

These two poems are sonnets. Also, a John Greene reference! Can you find it? Also: Formed an opinion? Care to share it? Please do!

* * *

_Constant Angel_

The days and nights grow dark and cold too fast

My passion dies and comes to a slow halt

Was I a fool to think our love would last?

Would it be wrong to claim it was her fault?

For since her pools of brown had learned to see

Through tears that stained her cheek, so pale, so nice

Angel I was, and would forever be

Until hell itself froze over with ice

That moment when her true angel flew in

In feath'ry wings, he soon took hold of her

He left me with a hate stronger than sin

I cried with pain too horrid to endure

When at long last she met her match in love

She looked in vain for sight of his black glove

* * *

_Withering Flowers _

Oh how I wish to see his hidden face!

How I long to see that old flash of white,

His renown mask, as deadly as a mace.

Alone in shadow, bathéd in dark light

That agéd violin, dusty and cold

'Tis sad: I hear its song no more, no more

O Father of mine, why must we grow old?

What's in time to come, what is held in store?

True, his voice resounds angelic melody!

It ravishes my soul in music's tune,

And wards off all the fear and death in me

To bring small flowers into life and bloom

My angel, oh fair creature—I ask why,

Why do I kill my soul with cruel "goodbye"?

* * *

Tears streamed silently down my face as I made my way down a dark passage. There was no way the mob would ever find me! I am the angel of darkness! I roughly wiped away my tears of sorrow. Enough, Erik. No more.

How dare they come into my domain, and drive me out like a rat from the sewer! My brows furrowed in frustration. How dare _she_ leave me to this pained existence!

After traversing winding passages, twisted staircases, and entering and exiting hidden doors, I at last reached a thoroughly concealed chamber, the furthest, actually, from all others, and certainly the furthest below the Opera House.

Slashing away at cobwebs and clearing away dust, I did a cursory sweep of the rooms. Yes, this would be fine until I could return to my old, familiar chamber—that is if the mob didn't completely destroy it.

Taking a moment to adjust to my current setting, I located the only organ in the entire chamber—My third favorite, of all my collection.

Sitting down gracefully upon a thin layer of dust, I rested my hands softly upon several keys. It was undoubtedly out of tune, but I needed to find refuge somewhere. I had to flee my contorted feelings.

Soft, dull music chimed forth from the smooth, cold keys, and echoed interminably, then faded into silence. Silence as dead and abandoned as my soul. Fresh tears welled in my eyes. Tears of rage.

Grasping a brass candlestick in my hand, I hurled it at the nearest wall with all my strength. A loud smash resounded as I yelled and beat against my chest with my fist, proclaiming all sorts of blasphemy: "Damn her! Damn my angel! Damn _me_!"

I cared not how loud I shouted, for no one would hear me. Even if someone did, who could find a Phantom, in a labyrinth of suffering such as this?

* * *

As we ran, we stumbled. In a hurried, panicked mess we fled from the place that had once been so tempting and mysterious. His fearsome shriek, filled with anguish, it clawed at my ears. It was my fault he felt such pain, my fault that he was suffering so terribly.

Raoul tugged me along harder the more I started to lag behind, sobbing tears of misery. The more I heartbrokenly slowed, clinging to whatever solace I had, which was nothing—sweet, sweet nothing—Raoul started to slow as well, and finally stopped, his arm upon my shoulder.

"Christine," he murmured, as I wept like a storm cloud, "Christine. It is over, it is done. Let's away. You have me, I am here. Please, cease your tears. Come along, Christine, my love."

He wrapped his arms around my shoulder, and together we walked down the dark passageway.

Though I would try to deny it, or protest against it, I have to admit that I searched each shadow for my angel. But he was gone, and I was the only one to blame.


	3. Freedom, Rememberance

These are free verse. See anything you like, have any suggestions? You are more than welcome to leave comments!

French line of first poem: Love is alive, love is not dead.

French line of second poem: Hidden, forgotten, oh! such cruelty.

I apologize if my wording is poor, I am only in French 3!

* * *

_Love Never Dies_

Hardly a sound echoed out of quiet

While he stood still, gazing at her

Try she may, she could not deny it:

The sheer emotion, the magnificent splendor

Her voice in its haunting purity

His in its powerful wonder

The two together, their strange beauty

Was never to be torn asunder.

Carved from the same stone,

Sculpted by different masters.

They held trials all their own,

In each other, they braved disasters

But deception soon led to a lie

And that lie to an aching hurt

Very much like when clouds cry

Dissolving up some of earth's dirt

The pain they knew was swift and sweet

Yet buried itself, and hid away

So with the sound of soft treading feet

Hope arose too strong to sway

But with a gentle turn of head

The truth was oh too clear to tell:

Dreams once sought, now all dead

Kindled the fiery pits of hell

Unknown to them, their time so short

L'amour est vivant, il n'est pas mort

* * *

_Trapped_

My foot, all of a sudden, is caught,

Upon the stony steps I upwards flee

Right now? Why yes, let it be for naught!

Surely _he_ still sees the good in me.

My gentleness comes across first,

Then fine graces, manners, and voice

But what if anger was my only thirst?

Would he have made a different choice?

Wish as though I may, try as though I might

I cannot relieve this guilt, this dagger, this knife

Which cuts into my conscience, slashes all light

Is this to be the remainder of my shameful life?

It shall not, it will not be! I refuse, I deny, I oppose

All thoughts such as this. Thoughts that, as they go,

Change you for good or bad—yes, only one of those

Regrettable I did not listen, did not see, did not know.

I ran and ran from that horrid, ugly place

And escaped with someone else and great

Think me cruel, I did not mean that man's face

That terrible sight, strikes sympathy, dismisses fate

For how could it exist if a person such as he does, too?

Two people could not be more different, estranged

Yet he had the courage to love me, to tell me "I do,"

But what is one without the other, as it goes unchanged.

How trapped am I, with no ropes to bind me

Caché, oublié, oh! une telle cruauté

* * *

I lit all the candles in the chamber, only to cling to the dark edges where light and dark merged. This is the game I had played. This was the game I had lost.

Christine had been my light, my candle in the dark. I was the darkness. There is a barrier between the two—a soft line that flickers, changes, and shifts. If this is not overcome, if some degree of acceptance does not occur, those flickers are too bright, too dark, those changes are too subtle, too much, and those shifts too little, too much.

This was the reason my angel left me. We could not manage our boundaries, our edges.

My organ sounded dismally from the dark corner, as I lightly caressed the ivories, growing angrier and more passionate as I endeavored to recount my angel. Piano, she is innocent, flowering, a crescendo, for we are encountering each other, forte, she denies me once, undulating symphonies as our story unfolds—and at last, fortissimo as she denies me the last time. I pound upon the keys, forcing them to feel my agony.

At last, a fading pianissimo. A faded, dying hope? A soft, lingering desire?

As I rest my heated forehead—warm from my playing with great fervor—against the cool white keys, I sighed, an echoing, melancholy sort of sound. Oh Christine… why did you have to go?

* * *

_Three weeks later_…

Drawing back light blue curtains, I saw nothing but a grey sky, and fat tear drops falling from the clouds onto the glass window. I sighed, releasing the curtain. How strange is it that the outside world seemed to be reflecting my mood? My brows furrowed in thought.

Why am I so downhearted and unamused? I am to be wed to my darling Raoul in one week's time. Only one week… I shook my head, shedding the thought. Would it make sense, would it be acceptable, if I wasn't entirely sure what I wanted anymore? Or, rather, who I wanted?

I inhaled deeply, and there, there he was again, in my mind! Him. He kept appearing everywhere—in the shadows of hallways, late at night, in a crowded street as I wander aimlessly, and even more so in my dreams, where I live the fantasy I have come to ache for and crave.

Recently, Raoul has grown impatient with me. He is exhausted of my constant pensive behavior. It does not appear that he knows of my indecisiveness, however, which is to his benefit. Many a night, he comes to my room after supper to bid me goodnight. Before he leaves, though, he doesn't hesitate to unceremoniously search around my room, voicing his concerns about my consistent attitude since that final moment in the Phantom's lair. As if he would find him here, in this room. No, I daresay my angel never wants to see me again after what I did to him.

As for Raoul's nightly lectures: Does he not know I am in mourning? I mourn for my angel! Yet how could he understand? He only knows the Christine who was afraid of this _monster_, the Christine who was too timid and oblivious to acknowledge her true feelings. Oh, in these past three weeks, I have discovered what human misery truly is!

I sat down upon a chair that had a view out the window. As I sat, I pondered—daydreamed, for it was not nighttime, and dreams do not live in their normal state during the day—and oh, I wondered what my life could have been! Indeed… what were the possibilities, had I turned a heel and ran?

Biting my lip to hold tears and keep my composure, I knew, upon an instant, that I must do something. I needed to act, or condemn myself to a lifetime of ignorance upon the subject of my angel.


	4. Independence, Promises

These are free verse, as well. They are almost like promises or vows. I did use a bit of Andrew Lloyd Webber's Love Never Dies as inspiration/ the theme for the second poem. Find something missing? Is the story not interesting you? Please leave a comment, they are much appreciated!

* * *

_For You_

To stop madness, before it starts

To halt your thoughts, don't let them form

To hide my face, away from yours lovely

It would be worthwhile, for you

To be yours alone, and pure as snow

To change the past, clean the slate

To be the angel, the one you pray for

I would be anything, for you

To gaze, the bright portals

To plan a soft kiss, those delicate lips

To wipe tears away, liquid crystals

I would be caring, for you

To enhance your soul, soar far beyond

To hold your heart, all mine, alone

To adore an angel, unbend her wings

I would love you, for you

* * *

_Once Upon Another Time_

Once upon another time, I would have the courage

To show you how I truly felt

Once upon another time, I would not be afraid

Of your face, so unique, so passionate

Once upon another time, I would be your constant angel

And stay with you for all time

Once upon another time, I would be strong

Strong enough to say yes, and to say no

Once upon another time, I would not cry

But instead absorb light, and glow

Once upon another time, I would live

Unlike anyone ever had.

Once upon another time, I would know what was best

And give all that I could give

Once upon a time, I would be gracious

Enough to deserve you.

* * *

As with ever morning, I rise only to greet my organ. I have fallen into a pitiful system of waking, playing away my agony, and letting darkness consume me. Nothing new, to be sure.

I have taken to sketching, upon a few occasions. It is not surprising how I can recount every detail of her face in such precise accuracy, even though her memory is shaded with a hazy mist. My artworks stand upon their easels, staring at me with her face. Yet, no matter how long I labor and toil, no matter how much detail I delve into—I cannot bring Christine to life before me. All of my masterpieces are mirror images. Broken ones.

I wish I could see her sweet, innocent face! Not plagued by gloom, but vibrant and full of zest.

Oh, I am certain that, until my dying day, I will be denied my wish. It is only to be expected of a creature such as me.

* * *

_Four days later_…

The sky remained overcast, but the weather that had been so degrading all week had finally ceased. No rain fell, and the streets vibated with the soft hum of people travelling home, as the late afternoon light caressed a bustling Paris. I donned my silk cloak, wrote a brief letter to Raoul to tell him I was out for a walk in order to clear my head, and hastily made my way through the bustling streets.

I maneuvered through the throngs of people with an anxious feeling rising in the back of my throat. It was excitement, and dread at the same time, one of the most unsettling mixtures.

After about three quarters of an hour—the crowds were so large at the end of the day!—I finally reached my destination. The Paris Opera House.

True, when the depths of the Opera House had been lit aflame by the mob, some of the first floor was affected, but not a great amount. The damage of the lower levels was disregarded, and in about a week and a half the first floor was as good as new. Preparations for the house's next production were sure to be underway, and I planned to stay out of sight, lest someone recognized me.

Indeed, when I entered the Opera House, there were many a ballet and choir girl skipping about, giggling, and many costume makers rushing to and fro with needles and makeup. Nothing seemed to have changed upon the surface, but underneath… that is where I needed to go.

Being sure to hide behind things and people, I made my way toward my old dressing room. Maybe I could find some way down from there.

* * *

My pen scratched as I scribbled, for I would not quite call what my hand does, "writing." I was inking some of my ideas for a new opera, comprised of many of the short symphonies I had composed in recent weeks. All about us, of course.

I must remind myself to write a name—a title is an integral part to an opera!

Shifting upon my bench, I thought for a moment. No, I shook my head, there is no way any fantasies of mine would ever be realized. They were too hopeful, too happy. Too unrealistic.


	5. Sorrow, Bloom

Sestinas are among the hardest poems to write. They follow a difficult format and the first one I wrote took me an hour, the second one took me about 30-40 minutes. Despite their difficulty, sestinas are now my favorite type of poem to write. Find something obscure, or perhaps overdone? Let me know in with your comments!

* * *

_The Plea_

I will fold my wings, put them away

They have no need, nor reason to be

Fanciful they are, merely a dream

A fantasy of children, children in love

Oh! How I'll miss her, and her song,

I still hear it echo in my lonely soul

A lock and key are needed for my soul,

It releases feelings better kept lost, away

From me, yet though I try, I hear their song

Tormenting me. I crave melody! Music, be

My savior, my only salvation, my only love

Please, lead me from myself, show me my dream!

This curse, this infection, it poisons my dream

The deadly venom, it infiltrates me, my soul

Tears kiss my face: _Please, take me_ _to my love_

My thoughts, distant, obscure, flown away

No! The thought of her must stay, not cease to be!

I beseech you, master of mystery, fill me with song

My ears ache to hear ethereal majesty! Her song

Alone can turn dare one's darkest fear to dream

Without it the flowers wither, gone. Can it be,

That without anything to save me, my soul

Could dry, crack, crumble, and fade away  
Like demons in Hell, devoid of Father's love?

Oh sweet, incandescent happiness, dost thou love

Me for me? Oh fair angel, can you divulge your song,

Reach out, cradle me like a babe, whisk me away?

Take me to the land, where all I want is but a dream

And let the fantasy caress me, love me, fill my soul

With care no one ever bestowed upon me, be as I be.

Myself as I am, my face as it horrendously be,

How could an angel, fair as any see, show love

To a devil such as me, with naught but hate in soul

And the curdling screams of doom as my solitary song?

Shall I reveal it? Sear like fire, a bittersweet, lovely dream?

Feast your eyes! Fear not! Judge not! Look not away.

Be true, dear angel, give me my _own_ song!

Love me, for that is my one and only dream!

Soul crusher, hurt no more, send not this one away!

* * *

_The Unbroken Heart's Flower _

I can no longer hide from my heart,

My very being is quaking with change,

Adjusting to this newfound me, a lie

In the form of a woman. Dangerous, lovely,

Yet a threat nonetheless, and unworthy of trust.

Oh, angel of darkness, save your demon of light!

He crawls toward the strong, yellowed light,

Even though I break his once unbroken heart.

How can he confide in me, and place his trust

In someone who so often asked him to change?

I retain that trait of beauty, of being truly lovely

Yet within my being, my core, it is _not_ true—A lie!

When I fell down the steps of morality, landing on a lie,

I was stolen, and bewitched by a subterranean light

A light that, although dark, gloomy, and eerie… was lovely

It took from me, my very beating, pulsating heart,

That thrived in sameness, and new nothing of change.

I deceived myself, and was robbed of _my_ only trust.

Oh, can I ever say I knew truth, or even true trust?

The years fritter away and I am left to wonder. A lie,

Or a stretch? Something remaining, staying, or a change?

How I yearned for the unknown beyond that strange light,

The passion within my soul, erupting volcanically at heart

That longing was something to be seen! Oh, how lovely!

And yet, what is ugliness, without something lovely?

Could we exist where opposites attract, where trust

Is bitten away, slowly, by a worm, a parasite of the heart?

I shall say to myself, without a doubt, that I see a lie,

One so iridescent, that the infernos of sun are not as light

A falsehood that is forever permanent, not subject to change

How I ache to start anew, feel in a different way, and change

Into a woman who embodies virtue, honesty, and is lovely

Now that she is clad in luminosity, and is stunning in this light.

I desire inconsolably for the faith of my angel, for his trust,

For I am exhausted, unbearably so, of living with this lie,

I cannot thrive as long as there is death within my heart.

Change me into flower, so I will bloom in trust

Lovely I shall be, my petals devoid of any sort of lie

Light will my spirit be, as carefree as an unbroken heart

* * *

Cautiously making my way down the dimly lit corridor to my old dressing room, I found it unlocked. As I entered, closing the door silently behind me, I was surprised to see almost everything as it once was—the bed made, the flowers, now dead, arranged with ribbons and letters of praise. Again, it was as if nothing had changed. But everything had—my whole world had changed. I must change it back!

With that thought, I slowly walked over to my mirror, within which my angel would appear many nights. I laid a warm hand upon the smooth, cool glass. Could he see me? Does he want to?

I seated myself at the mirror, facing it fully. "Angel," I called, "Angel." Please hear me.

Softly at first, then growing in volume, I sang my sweet tune properly named, "Angel of Music." I sang it again and again, without fail, praying he would somehow hear me.

* * *

I must have thought of twenty titles by now! Why do none of them fit! Maybe I should finish the opera, and then name it. Oh, what does it matter? A title is a title, it has no worth—why should it be so challenging to think of a simple phrase to put into perspective my musical genius!

Tossing my ink pen to the side, I growled in frustration. Laying my head upon the keys of the organ, as I had so often found myself doing, I listened to the quiet, studying it.

All was silent and sleeping, until I heard something. Something that was very familiar—heartbreakingly so. A voice so pure, so ethereal… my eyes widened as I sat bolt upright. Could it be? I listened, straining my ears to hear specific words. The faint, chiming melody was familiar! I do recognize it, if only I could remember! I do hear someone's voice, someone dearly beloved. Then, all of a sudden, it ceased.

I shook my head. No, there was not so much as an echo of what had just been sung. I rubbed my temples. It must have been my imagination.

Not daring to linger any longer upon such a sensitive subject as the one within my head, I picked up my ink pen from the floor, and scribbled another name, only to cross it out moments later. Oh, Erik… what has become of you?


	6. Acceptance

Nothing but prose, friends. I apologize for the length - be sure to leave comments on what you think! Many thanks... Katie :)

* * *

He did not appear, as he had so often done. I bit back tears. There was no way he could not be there. My fingers searched everywhere around my mirror for a lever, button, or some indicator of a hidden doorway or passage. I found nothing. Rising from my seat, I searched about the room.

I decided to push my mirror and vanity from their position, and was greeted with a cloud of dust. Coughing, I rubbed my eyes to see a trap door of sorts. Not hesitating, I lifted it up and saw a staircase that lowered into darkness.

Rising quickly to grab an oil lantern and a match, I carefully descended into darkness. I followed the passage as it went along, descending several more flights of stairs in the process. I soon heard the sound of a flowing water, and found myself across the lake from my angel's home. Making my way hesitantly, after a while I reached the chamber itself and entered, following a path from memory into the music room. I searched everywhere, found him absent—surely he should be here, playing his music! A long moment passed by as I searched room after room until I noticed that there was a thin, hardly noticeable layer of dust covering the keys of the piano.

My eyes widened in comprehension. He's not here, I thought. There is no way he would resist the piano with his heart so battered as it was. Tears of panic formed in my eyes as I searched around desperately, only to sit down upon his piano bench and stare into the grayness. Slowly, as my eyes adjusted to their normal state, after being blurred from tears, I noticed another crucial detail.

Gazing upon the dirt and dust covered ground, I saw a couple sets of footsteps. Footsteps! True, they could have belonged to anyone in the mob, but they just didn't seem to be. They were too perfect—my angel always walked with perfect gait—and too close to the piano. Who from the mob would care about my angel's piano?

Seizing this ray of sunshine, this burst of sudden hope, I eagerly followed the footsteps, and rushed down an unknown passage into a new direction. There were undoubtedly more chambers he could hide in—where was he?!

* * *

I had given up on titles for the time being—they were too frustrating, I would just wait until my opera was finished to worry about such things.

Slouching for a moment, deep in thought, my concentration wavered. I thought of Christine. Placing my head in my hands, I let myself have a couple of moments to wallow in self pity. When I lifted my head to continue my work, I felt better. Like a child who had it's feelings hurt, cried a bit, and then felt better afterward.

Placing my hand upon the keys of my organ, I began to play. This mode of therapy was starting to lose its effectiveness, I thought, as I poured myself into the music. I didn't bother to wipe away my tears—I hoped that their freshness would give me a stronger passion.

* * *

All of a sudden, I saw a light. It was distant, but not too terribly far. Snatching up my last bit of hope, I started to run, faster, faster, and began to call out, "Angel! My Angel!"

When I reached the end of the tunnel, and I saw the source of the light, my heart dropped to my stomach. I saw another house—a large chamber—smaller in size than the previous one. Once I realized that there was a light on in a window, my jaw fell. Could he be here? Then, my ears were lightly graced with music, such riveting music! It was familiar, it was.

With that instantaneous awareness, I ran up the path to the house calling out once more to an angel who I prayed would still want to save me.

* * *

Pounding unmercifully upon the old organ's keys, I was determined to relieve myself of all my burdens. I fed my soul a vigor that was sprung out of painful passion, not joyous passion.

The last several notes of what I had written drifted ominously into the quiet, as I ended my piece. Finally!

I turned, slowly, my mouth pressed into a firm line. Good work, Erik, I thought. Abruptly, though, something caught my eye. Glancing up, my heart stopped beating for the shortest of moments. Could my eyes deceive me? What foul, cruel joke is this? Does my mind mock me, and desecrate her memory with such hurtful images?

Frowning, I spoke, "I know it's not really you," and, expecting it to fade into nothingness, my eyes widened as the figure before me spoke, coming closer.

"My angel, oh, my angel," she lamented, "Do you not know it is me?"

My lip quivered and I trembled, "Convince me fully that you are, indeed, real, and not just another figment of my tortured mind!"

My words stung this apparition as her eyes lowered in hurt. She came closer, and laid her hand upon mine.

I recoiled, and stroked my hand. Could this be? Was that human flesh I had felt? I rose, standing several inches over her. She certainly looked like Christine. I stole fleeting glances at my artworks, and concluded that she was, indeed, the most accurate portrayal of Christine I had seen since she left.

Could she be real?

Her brown eyes studied my golden ones, and she took my hand in hers again. Raising them, she pressed them against her heart.

"See?" she whispered, "I'm real."

My mouth opened in disbelief as I struggled to find words. How can this be?!

"Christine?" I whispered in awe.

"Yes," she murmured back, "It is me."

Clearing my head, I shook it, and retreated a step back from her. My stare grew cold and stern.

"What do you want with me? Have you come to torture me more? And where is that de Chagny boy? Or did you leave him, too?"

She bit her lip as she fought back tears. I had hurt her feelings. Her feelings?! I thought to myself, What about mine? They were completely obliterated, thanks to this she-demon!

"Angel—" she started, her voice breaking, but I interrupted her.

"Please," I said forcefully, "I am Erik. Your angel is dead."

Her eyes widened. "Erik," she said dejectedly, "I have come to see you."

Eyes ablaze, I inquired, my voice growing in volume "Is that all you've come to do? Will you leave me after a week, a night, or even an hour? No matter what, you _will_ leave. Why have you come, Christine? What more do you want with me?!"

I turned violently, slammed my fist upon the organ, and stood observing the dent I had placed in it, shuddering.

Bright lights infiltrated my vision as my anger sizzled and simmered. I suddenly felt a hand upon my shoulder. I stiffened and turned, still battling with my emotions.

"Erik," she said quietly, "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

Not trusting myself, I made no response.

She sighed, and suddenly I felt her arms around my waist. "Erik," she said, her voice pleading, "Please forgive me. I didn't want to hurt you, but I did. And…I hurt myself."

What? What does she mean? I faced her, and held her at arm's length. She gazed at me with a tearful look.

My voice and expression softened, "My dear Christine, what do you mean?"

Could she have suffered as well? Was it possible?

"From the moment I walked away from you, three weeks ago, I have known nothing but sadness. My heart longs for you, but my mind resists you—Raoul is angry with me. He sees my excruciating desire, and wishes to change my mind."

I shook my head, calmly saying, "He cannot."

Christine assured, "He _did_ not."

The faintest of smiles teased at my mouth.

She lowered her voice a touch, saying, "And I cannot change my mind."

I raised an eyebrow, "No? Why ever not?"

Christine answered, "Raoul does not understand why you captivate my thinking, and steal my very soul. _I _did not realize or comprehend why until most recently. But, after weeks of contemplating, I do know why."

Confusion knit in my brow, I inquired, "Why?"

Blushing a faint pink, she said, "Because… My Erik, you have shown me what true beauty is."

For a moment, I lost sense of how to breath. What did she say? Was she implying I was _not_ horrid and ugly? Was I superior to her young de Chagny?

I was breathless. I desired to know more! But, suddenly, panic and a hint of rage afflicted me. Roughly, I asked, "And what of the boy? What of your Raoul? Do you not want him over me?"

A miniscule flame of irritation arose in Christine's eyes. "Did I not just make my sentiments clear? Raoul is handsome, yes, and is well-to-do in society, yes—but he does not know me like you do, he does not value and appreciate who I am like you do. You know, you understand. You inspired my very spirit!"

Her voice rose in loudness, full of emotion, and she took a step away from me, her eyes filling with tears, "Have I hurt you too much, Erik? Can you not see how much I care for you?" she dropped upon her knees before me, "Will you not forgive me?"

Tears began to course in small rivulets down her face as she said, "Raoul thinks I am the same young girl that he met at the seashore. He fails to realize that I'm not his Little Lotte anymore."

The small bits of anger and fear that had come over me again instantly disappeared. I nodded, and helped her to her feet. She wiped away tears with the sleeve of her dress. Stopping her hand, I held her head in my hands. Using my thumb, I gently wiped away her tears. She looked at me with surprise and just a hint of hope.

Slowly, I embraced her, and held her close. "And who are you now, my love?"

Tightening her hold around me, she lifted her head and offered a wishful smile, "I'm yours."

My stomach felt as if it were doing acrobatics. I was lost for words. Finally? At last? She is mine!

A couple tendrils of her hair had fallen from their pins. Tenderly placing them behind her ear, I was overcome with so many emotions, some that I felt I did not even know the name of!

She smiled at me, and I could not help but grin, grin like a lovesick fool! How I had waited for this moment!

"Oh, Christine," I said, expressing my newfound joy, "My Christine… I love you so!"

And my lips met hers.


End file.
